Bishop was wrong about how long it would take them to reach Crossroads Keep. Alya's condition has improved enough that she has started to keep pace with him effortlessly. By the end of the day it became clear that they would be approaching their destination before sunset the following evening, a whole day ahead of schedule.
He walks on sullenly, listening to her singing a tune in a foreign language as she follows behind, with Karnwyr traipsing around her. The strange words roll effortlessly off her tongue, and her soft, lilting voice makes Bishop wonder if she has ever trained as a bard. She certainly sounds better than Grobnar. He has heard her singing quietly to herself whenever she thinks she's alone, or when they are on the road, during a long journey.
It pains him to think that this could be one of the last times he'll hear her sweet voice.
He has been mulling over their inevitable arrival all morning. What should he say when they get there? "Take care, nice knowing ya" just doesn't seem sufficient. Should he just walk away? Maybe offer her one last chance to run off into the woods with him? No, bad idea – she's already turned that down twice before, and the gods know he does not take rejection well.
"You're awfully quiet today," she remarks, skipping up beside him, Karnwyr at her heels. The huge wolf has one of her hands in his massive jaws, and is gently nibbling on it. She smiles as she pats his grey head.
Obviously, they're both in a better mood than he is.
He shrugs noncommittally. Since the evening on top of the grassy cliff, when she had accepted that the paladin's death was for the best, their exchanges have been civil enough, and sometimes almost pleasant. She has started to treat him like she did before his betrayal; non-judgmental, understanding, friendly in a polite sort of way. They have even begun to talk – at least, she talks while he listens, pretending not to care, although his occasional questions and prompts probably tell her otherwise. He has never volunteered information about himself, though, and she seems to know better than to probe.
When it is obvious that he is in no mood to talk, Alya pouts. "Fine, Mr Sourpuss, we'll leave you alone." With a cheeky wink, she falls back behind him with his animal companion in tow.
Mr Sourpuss?? If it had been anyone else, he'd be feeding them his dagger right about now…
---
He sits by the fire, distractedly fletching some arrows. His mood has not improved much. Every time he tries to think of what to say tomorrow, his mind keeps harking back to the same impossible plea.
Don't go. Stay.
And why would she want to do that? Why would she forgo the comforts of her own keep, surrounded by people she knows and trust, to live hand to mouth with a ranger who has nearly gotten her killed by his betrayal, and who has murdered the man of her dreams?
He finishes with the arrow he is working on. Inspecting it, he realises that he has glued the feathers on backwards.
You stupid ranger…
He sighs. Shaking his head in disgust at himself, he throws the faulty arrow into the fire, sending up a cloud of sparks. He stares into the flames as it licks at the wooden shaft and feathers, first blackening them, then setting them alight. He watches as the straight piece of wood starts to bend and curl, and the feathers burst into flames, before both are completely consumed by the hungry fire, and all that remains is the flint arrow head.
The burning shaft reminds him of smouldering roof beams growing twisted in a blazing inferno, and the feathers resemble burning curtains, clothing, hair…
He hears the screams in his head, the hideous cries of anguish that haunt his nightmares. He forces them out of his mind.
Flickering shadows at the corner of his vision makes him turn his head. Alya is training, practising her fighting forms, the light from the fire causing her shadows to shimmer among the darkened trees. Her movements are slow and controlled, as she appears to dance in rhythm to some silent music. Smoothly, she dips and rises, spins and turns, her arms and legs tracing wide arcs in the air, mesmerising Bishop with her fluid grace. Although he is unfamiliar with the styles, he can clearly see that many of the fighting stances resemble the movements of wild animals: a swooping motion with clawed hands reminds him of the majesty of the eagle; a slow sway of her body before a swift strike brings to mind a snake surprising its prey; multiple tumbles and somersaults and a crouched stance mirror the deft acrobatics of the monkey; a sudden halt before standing stock still, eyes looking his way, like…
It takes him a moment before he realises that she's noticed him staring at her and has stopped to return his gaze, a slight expectant smile on her lips.
---
It feels good to finally be strong enough to practise her forms again. As she runs through the motions, she concentrates on the positioning of every part of her body, from the placement of each step, to being fully aware of the posture of every muscle in her being. As the movements start to flow, she feels the satisfying sensation of her mind, body and soul becoming one, meshing together as a single fighting entity.
"Nature is the best teacher." That is something her master always said. Mother Nature has blessed her children with the all the skills they need to survive.Alya remembers how she used to follow and observe a single animal for days on end, scrutinising its every move, before spending even more time afterwards trying to imitate it. Sometimes, her mentor would teach her a few forms he picked up from the beasts of his homeland, awing Alya so much by his interpretation of their grace and agility, that she yearns to see those amazing creatures for herself.
Raising her arms up high, she starts her eagle form, keeping her movements constant, floating like the bird of prey in flight. Then, settling into a low crouch, she changes from fluid and smooth to slow and swaying, striking out swiftly and silently like a cobra. Next, she rolls, jumps and flips, imitating a monkey swinging in the trees.
From the corner of her eye, she eventually notices Bishop staring at her.
In the last couple of days, she is almost starting to enjoy the ranger's company. He has been somewhat less surly, and although he is still not at all talkative, and is sarcastic whenever he does say anything, at least he hasn't been snapping at her. Coming from Bishop, that is being very nice.
She wonders why he seems somewhat distracted today.
Maybe I can get him to lighten up a little.
"See something that actually interests you?" she asks teasingly, as she stops to take a break.
"Only because you move like some of the prey I hunt," he retorts, seeming a little embarrassed to be caught watching her. "And," he adds in an intimidating tone, "you know what I do to my prey."
"So…are you in hunting mode now?" she asks cheekily.
He shrugs. "Depends on what prey's available."
With a grin, she starts to move again. Raising herself up on one foot, her arms outstretched, she strikes at an invisible enemy with one hand, fingers held together in the shape of a beak. Jumping in the air, she lands and pivots effortlessly on one foot, the other leg held high, both arms raised by her sides for balance, resembling a pair of wings.
"Crane," he declares with a smirk.
Her green eyes sparkle with amusement. "Not bad," she says. "What about this?" Standing rigidly, feet set apart, she strikes with the heel of her palms in large, side-swiping movements. Her stance is solid, as she grips the ground with her toes with each heavy step.
Bishop pretends to think a moment. "Bear."
"I'm impressed." She holds up an index finger, as if to say "One more." Lowering her stance, she stalks about silently, almost on all fours. Then, with a sudden burst of power, she pounces on an imaginary enemy, her body twisting with a catlike grace. She lands on one knee, and claws the air with both hands.
He cocks an eyebrow. "Panther?"
She makes a face. "Close enough. Tiger." Brushing her hands off, she laughs. "Say, that was pretty good," she says, before her eyes narrow mischievously. "You've proven you can identify your prey. Question is, can you beat them?"
This time he raises both eyebrows. "Is that a challenge, monk?" he demands, one corner of his mouth curling up in a smile.
Her hands on her hips, she nods, then beckons with a tilt of her head. "You may want to take off your leathers first. They'll only restrict you and slow you down."
"If you say so," he replies sarcastically, even as he moves to unbuckle his armour. "Not that it'll make a difference to the outcome," he adds confidently.
"It probably won't," she shoots back. "I'll beat you either way."
Smirking, Bishop removes his leather armour, tossing them in a pile near his bedroll. Rolling the sleeves of his shirt up, he walks towards Alya, who is cracking her knuckles. She tilts her head one way until her neck clicks, then does the same to the other side. "Ready?" she asks brazenly.
Bishop raises both fists in front of himself. "Do your worse, monk."
Cautiously at first, they circle each other, sizing the opponent up. She eyes him intently. His hazel eyes are piercing, predatory, like a wolf's.
He throws a dummy punch, but Alya anticipates it, and doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, she springs forward and lashes out at him. He backs off just in time to see her foot flying across his face. As she draws back for another kick, he seizes the opportunity to attack. His fists punch thin air as Alya neatly dodges him, before ducking under his arms and elbowing him in the ribs. He grunts and recoils from the pain. Alya dances out of range, a satisfied look on her face.
With a low growl, Bishop lunges for her. She side-steps him while simultaneously giving him a sharp tug in the direction he is headed. The extra momentum sends him stumbling. As he struggles to regain his balance, she kicks his legs out from under him. He lands heavily on his back, the impact winding him. As he catches his breath, Alya saunters closer, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
Too late, she realises that she is standing too close to him.
Her overconfidence costs her as he grabs both her ankles and yanks them violently. Alya loses her footing and falls. Grabbing his chance, Bishop pounces on her, trying to pin her down, but she bucks and manages to squirm free. As she jumps to her feet, Bishop again lurches towards her, tackling her around the waist. They land in a heap, and something jars her knee. He attempts to put her arm in a lock, but again she wriggles free, and in a flash, reverses the hold on him. Pushing him to the ground, she grabs his arm and wrenches it uncomfortably behind his back. She hears him hiss in pain.
"Do you yield?" she asks, breathing hard from the exertions. Knowing Bishop, he would not give up at this point, not with his face pushed into the dirt in what he would perceive as a humiliating fashion.
As she expects, he stubbornly struggles to get free, so she twists his arm a bit more.
"Ow, ow, ow!" he yells. "Okay, already! Dammit, I yield!"
Smiling triumphantly, Alya releases the pressure on his shoulder and lets him go. As he rolls himself to a sitting position, scowling, she holds out her hand to help him up. "Well done, ranger," she says, beaming.
Without warning, Bishop grabs her outstretched arm and pulls hard, jerking her forward. At the same time, he plants a foot on her chest and falls backwards. Caught completely off guard, she is sent flying over him. After what seems like a long time in the air, the ground surges up to meet her, and she sprawls awkwardly as she lands. Before she could recover, he is on top of her, pinning her down.
"Hey!" she protests. "That was a dirty tactic!"
Keeping his knees on her legs, his hands pushing down on her forearms, Bishop snickers as she continues to buck and writhe, trying to worm her way out from underneath him. "Do you yield now, monk?"
Before she could reply, Alya clutches her chest suddenly and gasps in pain.
"Shit," she hears Bishop swear. "Your chest wound…" rolling off her quickly, he helps her to her feet. "You okay?" he asks, putting an arm around her.
She responds by throwing him over her shoulder and pinioning him to the ground. She hears a startled "Wha–?" before he hits the turf.
"Ha!" she declares, laughing, as she holds him down. "Didn't think you of all people would fall for that!"
Her laughter dies in her throat when she sees the look on Bishop's face.
In an instant, his expression has changed from concerned and surprised, to dark and stormy…very stormy. His amber eyes narrow menacingly, blazing with a silent fury. If looks could kill, she would have withered under his gaze.
"Get the hells offme, now!" he roars, as he tries to break free. Startled by his vehemence, Alya slides off as he pushes himself up. Scrambling to his feet, he appears to tower over her; his chest heaving, his eyes on fire, his hands clenched so tightly they are shaking, he looks ready to explode.
With a snarl of rage, he drives a fist into the nearest tree, and stalks away, leaving Alya sitting there, speechless. She brings both hands to her mouth before running her fingers through her hair.
Alya, you stupid, insensitive bitch…
